


Combat Stats and Probability

by thirty2flavors



Category: Borderlands (Video Games), Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Post-Game(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 21:33:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10369926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirty2flavors/pseuds/thirty2flavors
Summary: Anticipating the need for a lot of vocabulary support, Sasha offers, “Bad dream?”“Yeah, something like that.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Played this game for the first time this month, loved it, here we are. Never played any of the mothership games, so apologies if something is out of whack, but this is so short and self-contained I doubt it. 
> 
> Set some sort of indeterminate time after ep 5! Choose your own adventure for how that vault stuff resolved, I guess. Also it’s an established relationship, so choose your own adventure for that, too. Not intentionally based on [this adorable fanart](http://leafpuppy.tumblr.com/post/132176542015/doodle) by tumblr user [leafpuppy](http://leafpuppy.tumblr.com/), but I'm sure seeing it played a role in my subconscious crafting this.

Pandoran instinct kicking in when she’s jostled awake suddenly, Sasha springs into action. She’s already rolled to the edge of the mattress, her fingertips brushing the gun she keeps under the bed ( _“What? It helps me sleep.”_ ), before she notices Rhys sitting up in bed, rattled but not panicked, and connects the dots. She leaves the gun where it is and sits up on her knees.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Huh?” From his look of surprise she determines he had forgotten she was there entirely; she lets it slide for now but makes a mental note to rib him for later. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Just...” 

Anticipating the need for a lot of vocabulary support, Sasha offers, “Bad dream?”

“Yeah, something like that.” 

He looks down as he says it, methodically flexing each finger on his right hand. Frowning, Sasha braces herself for doing the conversational heavy lifting and crosses the distance between them, plunking her chin down onto his shoulder. It’s a warm night, but not hot enough to justify the way his t-shirt is clinging to his back. She reaches out for the hand he’s flexing but he pulls it away self-consciously, catching her fingers with his left hand instead. 

“Jack?” she asks.

Rhys twists his head to look at her. “How—?”

“I’m a genius.” She pauses, then gestures towards his arm with her head. “Also, it was super obvious.”

His lip twitches in what almost might be described as a smile. Sasha counts it as a victory. “Right.”

“Sooo… you wanna talk about it?” She punctuates it with a shrug, hoping to alleviate some of the question’s inherent awkwardness without seeming cold. 

Predictably, Rhys adopts an air of bravado as transparent as cellophane. “Oh, you know, just… losing my mind and bodily autonomy to a megalomaniac who wants to destroy me and everyone I care about. No biggie.”

He delivers it as a joke, complete with a dismissive wave of his free hand, but she feels the way his grip on her fingers tightens and the dampness of his t-shirt beneath her chin. They’ve never really talked about this at any length, only snippets of conversation here and there. Combined with Fiona’s retelling, Sasha has never felt the need to pry. The physical repulsion she feels at the mere thought of having someone like Handsome Jack in her head tells her all she needs to know; she’d have reached the “plunge a shard of glass into your own head” stage approximately thirty seconds after Jack’s first appearance. That Rhys came out the other side alive, much less still himself, is a mark of a much stronger character than Sasha would have thought possible when they first met. 

She squeezes his hand in return and bumps his shoulder with her own. “These people you care about... that include me?”

“Maybe,” he says in a voice that definitely means _yes_. 

“Hmm.” She bites her lip in mock concentration, then waves a hand. “Well, then, don’t worry about it, ‘cause if you were ever to get possessed by a crazy murder ghost and try to attack me, I could drop you in, like, five seconds, flat.”

“Wait, what?”

Sasha carries on, purposefully oblivious to his stare. “Obviously I have the edge with a gun, but hand-to-hand combat should be an easy win, too.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowed. “Is this supposed to be you making me feel better? ‘Cause, I’ve gotta say…”

“You’re right, sorry.” Then, “Ten seconds, if we’re being generous.”

He shifts to get a better view of her, one eyebrow raised incredulously. “Really? Ten seconds? You think you’re maybe underestimating me a little?”

“Not at all. For starters, you’re tall, so your centre of gravity is crap. Two, you’re very weak.” She ticks off her fingers as she speaks. “That arm is your biggest strength, but I know that, so I’d take that out first by going for your temple. Third, you have, like, _no_ sparring skill at all—”

He lets go of her hand in order to cross his arms. “Okay, starting to feel like you’ve thought about this too much.”

She shrugs, keeps her facial expression as neutral as she can against the grin fighting to break free. “Hey, old habits die hard. I figured all of this out within three minutes of knowing you.” She pauses. “Except the strength. That took longer. You’re actually weaker than you look.”

“Great.” Through the sarcasm and the scowl she can see the amusement in his eyes, the way his shoulders sit lighter than they did moments ago.

“Oh, and this,” she adds, full-on mischievous smile now. “This I just found out, like, a week ago.” 

She waits for the line of confusion to form on his forehead before she reaches down, sliding her hands under the hem of his shirt to tickle the patch of his skin above his hip. The effect is immediate; he squirms away from her and tumbles backwards onto the bed, dissolving into peals of laughter. Sasha falls half on top of him, still tickling, grinning wickedly as he writhes with giggles beneath her, fumbling for her hands.

“Will—you—stop— _stop it_ ,” he manages between breaths, before finally grabbing her wrists and pulling them away. Breathless, he shakes his head. “You are the _worst_.” 

Sasha raises one eyebrow, setting her chin down on his chest. “What’d I tell you? Ten seconds, easy.”

“Unbelievable.” 

“And, you know, I can only speak for myself, but realistically I think Fiona, even Vaughn—”

“Okay,” he interrupts, exasperated, and Sasha buries her face in his chest, her laughter muffled against his shirt. “I got it. Thanks. That’s sweet. Thank you.”

Adopting as serious an expression as she can muster (a catastrophic failure by all accounts), she nods. “Any time, babe.” Then she bursts into laughter again, and this time he does, too, the rumble of his laughter bouncing her head up and down.

As the snickering subsides, she settles against him, tracing one finger along the portion of his tattoo just visible above his collar. One of his hands runs up and down her back, a soothing rhythmic motion accompanied by pleasant chills. Time creeps by, and Sasha finds her eyes growing heavy. 

She looks up at Rhys, who seems miles away, staring at the ceiling. Propped up on her elbows, she leans into his line of sight and places one hand in the centre of his chest. A grin starts to spread across his face—surely anticipating another joke—but Sasha stays sober this time.

“If you’re going to list all the ways Gortys could kill me, let me tell you, I’m way ahead—”

“No,” she says, seriously enough that his eyebrows raise and his grin turns to a frown.

“Are you—?”

“He’s gone, Rhys,” she says, plunging in before she can chicken out. Nothing is ever quite as frightening as sincerity. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re not gonna hurt anyone. It’s over. And even if it wasn’t, we’d figure it out. Okay?”

He blinks at her in surprise for a few seconds before nodding. “Okay. Yeah. Okay.”

“And, for what it’s worth…” Sasha chews her lip, then takes a deep breath to shield against the uncomfortable feeling of exposure. “I don’t really trust anyone, but I trust you. So.”

Rhys’ grin comes back in full force, smug as ever. “That right?”

She heaves a somber sigh. “Regrettably, yes.” 

“What a weird choice.”

“Tell me about it,” she says, with a theatrical eyeroll. 

His hand moves up her spine to cup the back of her head and Sasha follows its lead, dipping down to press a kiss to his lips. They linger for a second, then she pulls away and relaxes onto the bed beside him and curls onto her side. Rhys does the same, his hand resting on her hip, and Sasha lets her eyes close. She’s nearly fallen asleep again when he nuzzles into the base of her neck.

“Hey. Sash.” She can feel his breath against her bare skin. “Just… y’know… thanks.”

“Yeah, yeah, you big sap.” She tugs his arm around her waist, relishing in the coolness of the metal against the warmth of the air. “Try to drool on your own pillow this time.”


End file.
